Falling
by summersquares
Summary: One of those stories where Tony or Gibbs gets hurt and they realize something about their feelings for one another. I love those stories. Slash. Rating for language only. At least for now.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I think this is a one-shot, but I don't do short well. One thing always seems to lead to another. I really appreciate that I can write here and no one laughs at me. So, thanks. Maybe it's silly but it's mine. Thanks for reading. Sqs. 3/30/14

* * *

Tony approaches from one side and Gibbs the other, carefully, both on full alert, both with guns drawn. They are in a small preserve, mostly woods, but unusually containing cave formations and a gorge with a drop of over 100 feet. Because both the caves and the precipitous drop to the gorge are dangerous attractors, both are carefully fenced off and signed. There should be no way for the location to bite them in the ass and yet, when things go to hell in a handbasket, that is just what happens.

The area had been quietly evacuated and while Gibbs' team is lead, there are two other teams there for support to bring in the two suspects and to process any additional crime scenes discovered. Agents are spread out over the area leading up to the most picturesque scenic overlook of the gorge, and despite the susurration of the river below, both men know that they are only a shout away from the cavalry rushing in, should they need help.

Gibbs doesn't get a chance to shout, however, when a _third_ person appears behind him to cock a pistol in the back of his neck as he sneaks forward toward the two people he had previously thought were solely responsible for engineering the killings. Tony is too far into the clearing to duck out of sight when he sees Gibbs freeze, so instead, he acts. He is on the closest man even as Gibbs moves and strikes his assailant. The third suspect comes to the aid of the man Tony is struggling with and so it is that, while Tony manages to knock out one of his attackers, the other is now dragging him bodily toward the scenic precipice.

Tony is dazed from several staggering blows to the head and blood is streaming into his left eye from a deep gash on one side of his forehead, high. He has just enough time to think that it is no consolation that he is going to die in a beautiful place, and to hear Gibbs' shout, before his boots are scrabbling for purchase several feet beyond the end of the wooden fence. His assailant, an enormous man named Willow Corner who Gibbs suspects played the role of abductor and rapist, not killer, is slowly but surely forcing Tony's head backward. Tony's perch on the edge of the gorge isn't deep or stable enough to compensate for the backward bowing of his body and he would have flipped right off had his foot not slipped. He drops instead.

Tony doesn't feel his fingernails ripping as he tries to cling to the soft dirt at the edge of the cliff, seeking any kind of anchor. He doesn't hear voices calling and feet pounding. He doesn't even notice that Willow isn't helping him the last few inches to his death, isn't even present anymore. He does feel the sweat and blood in his eyes and his shoulders burn with the effort to hold on; his lungs gasp for air and his mouth tastes of dirt and the peppermint that grows somewhere nearby. All his consciousness focuses on internal metrics, not external ones. His breath, what he tastes, his shaking arms and hands and even his elbows burn. _Elbows?_ He would have laughed if he had breath. He is angry, truly pissed, that he is going to die in a fall. A fucking fall.

His fingers slip further. Tony concentrates on breathing and holding on. _Gibbs will come. Gibbs will come if he can just hold on._

Despite the stinging in his eyes, the little slice of the world in front of Tony is suddenly vibrant and precious. The wavy blur of grass a few feet away, the glint of mica in dirt just inches from his nose, the sun winking off of something metallic nearby, the strong hand wrapped around his wrist.

_Jesus_. Gibbs has him. His eyes shoot to Gibbs'. But he is still slipping. _Why is he still slipping?_ Panic galvanizes him, pulls him out of his stupor, and he swings his now dangling left arm up to wrap around Gibbs' other wrist in return. He can see Gibbs' lips forming words. Tony can't hear them over the roaring in his ears but he knows what they are. _Hold on, Tony. Hold on. Hang on. Don't let go. I got you. _

But Gibbs doesn't have him, is slipping himself, has nothing to brace himself on and in fact is probably really saying something like: "I need some help over here! _Now_!" And even as Tony watches, Gibbs, in a bid to gain better leverage, flings himself to the side, trying to catch an edge of the fence, but Tony could have told him that it was too far away and now Gibbs is on his stomach and sliding forward even as Tony drops another six inches or so straight down. Tony can't see what Gibbs found for purchase, but he found something, a tree root or rock or something because for a few beautiful seconds the dreadful slide stops, and the two men's eyes meet again. Blue on green. Gibbs's face is red and dirty and his teeth are clenched. But Tony doesn't look at that. Just his eyes.

Tony already knows he cares for Gibbs so there is so big revelation here, just one last chance to silently communicate with the man who means so much to him, who has done so much for him. He doesn't try to speak, doesn't even think about it really, just knows that Gibbs will have to let go soon, or fall himself, and even as he thinks it he realizes his hand doesn't seem quite so firmly held and he braces himself for Gibbs' unwilling release.

He doesn't take his eyes off Gibbs though and so he sees the moment that Gibbs' eyes settle. Determined. The same way they always settle when his course is set, Gibbs' own internal compass and navigation system identifying the final coordinates and fuck anyone who gets in his way. Tony's heart stops, he would swear _it actually stopped_. _Christ, no, not Gibbs, no, you are not coming with me no— _

And now, Tony is desperate to tell him that, but it is too late to speak and he feels the momentum shift as Gibbs pushes himself _forward_, lunges really, toward Tony and they will both fall. They are going to fall together. _Oh Gibbs, no no no no._

But they don't. Not yet. Tony would have liked to shut his eyes, not been a part of Gibbs' death, his own death, but he can't, not while Gibbs' blue eyes are locked on his. And so he sees bits of every painful minute of their rescue in his peripheral vision. McGee and Balboa have a hold of Gibbs' legs and before he is even all the way back on the lawn, others are hauling on Tony's arms.

And then Tony is up and standing, but only for an instant before he sinks back to the ground. Agents cluster around him, the voices loud and indistinct both. Their concern is clear though, and McGee is plucking at his shoulder, trying to get Tony to stand, to get him over to the medical truck.

Tony manages to rasp out, "'S okay, Tim," McGee's squawking gets more insistent at Tony's use of his name and Tony tries again, raising his voice sharply, "McNanny! I'm okay. I'm okay. Just don't want to be high up right now. Just leave me here on the ground for a few minutes okay?" Tony lets his head drop between his arms, trying to breathe, feeling the sharp pain on his head, the duller but more worrisome throbbing inside. Trying to breathe, though, that came first. Why won't the air stay, stay...a sudden thought intrudes and his head snaps up only to spin with a terrible vertigo—

"Where's Gibbs? _Where's Gibbs?_" Desire to stay on the ground forgotten, almost hysterical all of a sudden, Tony rolls over onto his hands and knees, scrabbles at the ground and tries to get up, to get to Gibbs.

Now, infuriatingly and in contrast to just _ten_ _fucking seconds_ ago, the hands are trying to hold him down. McGee, at least, seems to have gotten the message. He sinks to the ground next to Tony and shushes the others so Tony can concentrate on him. "Tony. Gibbs is alright. He's alright, okay?" McGee reaches out to hold Tony's shoulders, shake a little. "Just sit down for for a minute would you? The guy he was fighting had a knife and Gibbs is getting stitched up. He's fine though. Snapping at everyone and trying to refuse medical attention. _Normal_." Tony squints and can finally focus on McGee's face, see the tentative smile.

As if he had a choice—he is pretty sure his legs won't hold him—Tony decides to follow McGee's advice for a minute. He sits on the blessed ground, arms around his knees, head between them trying to draw air into his lungs. _How's that working out for ya, Tony Boy? Tony Boy, Pony Boy. 1983 movie based on a book with Howell, Ralph Macchio, Matt Dillon, and Patrick Swayze, directed by Frances Ford Coppola. Also notable for being the first time he got to second base with Alyssa Milne, in the back seat of his friend Chris' Dodge Dart_. _Tony Boy, Pony Boy. Gibbs._

_Gibbs._

Despite the free association and reassuring repetition of familiar movies and actors, Tony's breaths stay short and labored. Bright dots like fireflies swim and his head feels light and almost disconnected from the rest of his body. He can hear McGee talking to him, trying to reassure him even as he starts to shake. He hears McGee calling for help, hears an unmistakable bellow of command and rage, feels himself starting to slump as he passes out but lasts _just_ long enough to register that familiar arms catch him instead of the hard-packed dirt of the lookout.

**LJG&TD**

What he knows is only a few minutes later, Tony rouses, eyes snapping open to find Gibbs' face hovering above him, blocking the sun.

"Help me up." Tony didn't recognize the hoarse rasp of his own voice.

"Tony, just stay down a minute, okay?" The look in the blue eyes is familiar, but it doesn't mean what he thought it did. Everything is different now.

"Help me up." Tony gathers strength into shaky limbs and without any concern for how he looks, for his weak and shaky limbs, he flips himself over like a turtle, crawls off Gibbs' lap and away, clumsy and frantic over to the nearest set of legs, gripping cloth and the handholds of knees and pockets until he stands propped against Balboa.

"Tony…" Tony rests his forehead against his colleague's shoulder for four full breaths and then straightens, removing fingers one at a time from Balboa's shoulder. He stands facing Gibbs, whose hands are outstretched as if to catch Tony even though he is too far away now. Tony looks up to lock gazes with Gibbs, his body still swaying a little. Later, Tony would remember the warm breeze, the persistent smell of mint, the sound of distant traffic, voices.

"You bastard."

"Tony."

"No!" Tony's shout turns into a scream. "Noooooooo!"

The people moving around stop. McGee's mouth opens in surprise.

"What did you think you were you doing?! You fucking _bastard!_" Tony screams and screams again, feels like he is never going to stop. He has to stop. "Not _you_! _Not YOU!_"

The fact that the other man is alive and standing in shock not four feet away is confusing and improbably infuriating. Before anyone can stop him, Tony rushes Gibbs, crashing into him and sending both of them flying into other people.

The fight doesn't last long and isn't one of Tony's most impressive showings. Gibbs is mostly trying to stop Tony from hurting himself, and Tony is fighting like a wounded animal, slapping and punching and kicking any part of Gibbs he can get near. The anger is a warm tide rising over the cold blue depths of fear.

As rough hands pull him off of an unresisting Gibbs, he catches the older man's eyes—_please, no, don't let them_—and finally Tony sees some of his own anguish on the other man's face, sees—

Tony rouses on the way to the hospital. He is in the back of a station wagon and his first thoughts are nostalgic ones, of his childhood. He doesn't have many of those, and this is a new one, a memory he had forgotten. Seat belts weren't ubiquitous back in the 70's and 80's. And it turns out, he had obviously spent many happy hours, unbuckled—he even remembers turning around in the seat to laugh and play games with kids in the way back—in an old station wagon, probably the best that Ginevra could afford on a housekeeper's salary, with fake wood-paneling, backseat windows that didn't roll down, the best AM radio that money could buy.

_It even smells the same as this car_, he thinks muzzily. _Sort of plasticky and...hot. _He closes his mouth and swallows with difficulty. His tongue and lips are dry. He brings his hand to his face, rubbing his eye, which is itchy and hot.

A cooler hand, firm but not ungentle, pulls his hand away from his face. "Don't do that, DiNozzo. There was poison ivy in the area."

Memory comes flooding back so quickly Tony almost moans. As it is, he can't help but turn his face down, pressing into the warm cushion of...a leg? Someone's body? His blood runs cold when he realizes whose body it must be.

Before he can die of embarrassment though, he feels the weight of Gibbs' hand return to his shoulder. _Return?_ Gibbs doesn't rub little circles into his shoulder, doesn't press or comfort in any obvious way, but the weight of that hand, the warmth—even though it had seemed cool compared to his own moments ago—seeping through his shirt and coat, makes him feel grounded and...well, cherished. Tony winced inwardly. _Cherished?_ Ridiculous. But he also knows how important his boss' good opinion is. He doesn't move.

"Breathe, DiNozzo." The gruff command drifts down from above.

Tony realizes he is holding his breath. Embarrassment isn't enough to prevent him from being glad for Gibbs strong leg beneath his cheek.

"What...what happened, boss?" Tony can hear people talking from the front of the car. "Who is driving? Who's car is this?" His voice is hoarse and slow, but he seems to understand their situation.

The voices prattle on, unaware, while Gibbs answers him. "The ambulance took the perps away. They are hurt worse than we are. You probably have a hell of a concussion and they stitched me up at the scene. We were okay to travel by car so we hitched a ride with some of the techs on site. We are almost there, probably another ten minutes."

"Are they speaking...Spanish? Doesn't sound right. Is my concussion bad do you think?" Tony raises a hand to his face again. Gibbs pushes it back down again, leaves his own hand where it is, covering Tony's, to keep it in place. Tony's consciousness has shrunk to the hand on top of his.

"Portuguese, I think."

"Ah." Tony says knowingly, although he doesn't know a word of Portuguese. Tony lets the rumble of the engine, the bird-like chatter of the voices in conversation, the minute rocking of his head against Gibbs' thigh, become his world. "Boss?" His voice sounds thin even to his ears.

"Yeah, Tony?" _Tony_. _Not DiNozzo_. Tony lets his eyes shut again. Gibbs voice comes again, closer, where the man was leaning forward, "Tony? You need something?"

Tony remembers suddenly, tries to sit up. Gibbs presses him down again. "C'mon, Tony. Stay still. If you sit up, you are _not_ going to feel good."

Even that much movement makes his head swim and his stomach revolt. Tony subsides with a groan, swallowing and trying to keep from throwing up. Gibbs' hand resumes its place on his shoulder, squeezing briefly. Again, Tony's world shrinks, a pulse of pleasure and warmth suffusing his body.

"Boss?"

A sigh from Gibbs. _Why was he sighing?_ "Did you almost...did I almost...did we…" Tony reaches his hand up again, this time to touch Gibbs' hand...which holds his suddenly. Curls firmly around his own.

**LJG&TD**

Tony feels like shit. Smells the hospital smell, feels the hospital bed underneath him. He resists the pull of consciousness, _tries_ to stay warm and safe and _under_ but he has to pee and his stomach hurts and his...shoulders too? And his head hurts but that is more familiar. He is the King of Concussions. But his chest aches. Something bad has happened and his chest aches. Before he risks opening his eyes, he lets his hand crawl up slowly to press the tips of his fingers hard as he can—_not very_—into his breastbone, over his heart. _Shit_. Did someone kick him there? Punch him?

He hears something small, someone shifting or breathing. He doesn't hear it repeated though. The pain in his chest gets more acute, heat like a rash spreading across his chest and up _up_ until there is a knot of pain at the base of his throat getting ready to choke him.

He slits his eyes open cautiously. His instincts are telling him he is in danger and his ears are telling him someone is in the room. Two things that might be related.

Without opening his eyes fully and blinking them clear, he has to rely on the blurry slice of the world he can discern.

There is no mistaking the dark blob by the window though. _Gibbs._

Where there should be relief, a sense of safety and anticipation—_interesting things always happen around Gibbs, he likes who he is around Gibbs—_the pain in his chest intensifies. Despite trying to clamp it down, a small sound escapes him. The dark blob shifts, gets bigger.

Gibbs is standing by the bed now, and Tony wants to crawl away from him—_what had Gibbs done?_ —tries to shift away, manages to get his hand down against the bed as a lever and scoots a little further away. "Go away," he mumbles. The words are garbled but Gibbs knows him better than anyone, knows what he is trying to say.

"Tony. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Already did." He doesn't know why, is trying hard not to remember, has to pee still. "I have to go to the head."

Gibbs moves toward him and Tony's eyes open wide and he flings up a hand, palm out, a flash of white bandages on his fingers and then he is wincing and grunting in pain but still warning Gibbs away. His vision is blurry but he can see that Gibbs has frozen where he stands.

Tony sees a way.

"Just give me a little privacy would ya? I have to...I have to go to the bathroom."

"What if you fall? Let me call the nurse."

"Gibbs," Tony tries to put strength in his voice, "it's fine. This isn't any worse than lots of times. I'll be fine. Just...just give me a minute. Please?" The pauses, the rasp of his voice, the plea...all calculated to get him what he wants, needs. He doesn't look at Gibbs, keeps his gaze on his hands, flipping them over and back again. The man probably suspects but so far he has done what Tony asked. Maybe he'd do this too.

"I'll be right outside. Yell and I'll hear you."

"Okay." Tony swings his feet down to hang on the side of the bed, even this much movement closer toward Gibbs making the voice in his head gibber in panic until finally Gibbs turns and walks away, through the door.

Adrenaline still surging, Tony looks around and starts opening doors. He manages to get his jeans on, pausing only an instant at the sight of dried blood on the legs. Thank god the hospital gown ties in the back because he never would have been able to wrestle the hospital gown over his head. He tosses the dirty t-shirt aside—_he'll never get it on—_and puts his equally dirty jacket on instead, zipping it all the way up. He sees his cell phone and wallet on the bedside table. Gibbs must've put them there. He snags them, and his boots, and shuffles painfully to the bathroom. Closing the door behind him, he sits on the toilet and starts putting his boots on. He can't manage to hold the phone with his shoulder—_fuck fuck fuck that hurt—_so he loses another valuable minute before he can call directory assistance and get the hospital switchboard to page Gibbs. A minute later, he hears voices outside his door: female, Gibbs, female, Gibbs. And then no recognizable voices.

Still acting on instinct, whatever had landed him here in the hospital burning and crackling in a path toward his conscious mind, Tony slips out of the door as if just coming from visiting his good friend Tony DiNozzo. Poor guy, sick in bed. He should reassure the man's family and friends, should text them and look concerned as he walks toward the hospital gift shop. The guy could use a magazine. Tony stops a nurse, asks which elevator will take him to the gift shop. She gives him a funny look, asks him if he has been seen yet. He smiles sheepishly, nods, says it looks worse than it is, and while her nurse's eyes don't buy his own assessment of his health, they don't think he is actually sneaking out of his room and this hospital, so she directs him to a different bank of elevators, ones that will lead him out.

Once in the elevator, unfortunately not alone, Tony allows himself to slump in the back corner, leaning his head back and resting his eyes, willing the dizziness and weakness to subside. Just for a little while. Just a few more minutes. On the ground floor he worries that he'll run into McGee or Abby or Ziva or Ducky but there is a family instead with a wheelchair and some little kids and a lot of doctors and nurses and volunteers, but he forces his body to lope smoothly toward the door, no indication of hurry and covering up the pain to the best of his ability. At the last minute, he swerves away from the revolving doors, realizing that he would probably trip, and runs into someone. He doesn't apologize, just leans his weight against the single push door out until he is standing in the courtyard and there is a taxi stand but across the street, even better, is a drug store and a Dunkin' Donuts. He finds a loose plastic shopping bag on the side of the building and wraps his phone in it, tossing it under a fire escape. Maybe it'll still work when he gets it back.

At the drugstore, he buys a burner phone and a baseball cap—never thought he'd wear a Nationals hat—and then uses the ATM to get out the maximum $400 withdrawal. Then he walks next door to the coffee shop, uses the bathroom—_finally!—_orders a large coffee and drops heavily into a seat by the window. It is important he stay awake and he really really needs to sit down. As he watches the hospital entrance, he plans his escape. He plots several different routes, by train, bus, and airplane. He thinks about where he might go, people he could stay with. He even briefly considers taking a boat somewhere but the thought of it means he has to put a cold and shaking hand against the back of his neck and breathe through his nose to keep from gagging.

Time passes. He is about half done his coffee when he sees Gibbs come out of the hospital and look around. He moves swiftly around the building and eventually comes back with the plastic bag, Tony's phone. Tony is fading, fatigue and stress and injury generating a fog of pleasant indifference, but he still smiles to see Gibbs. He watches patiently while McGee and Ziva join him. Eventually, Ziva interviews the taxi drivers and McGee and Gibbs go back into the hospital. Once Ziva too leaves, Tony rises and leaves the sanctuary of the coffee shop, walking slowly—like an old man—a couple blocks away to a hotel and uses one of their taxis to go where he needs to go.

**LJG&TD**

At Gibbs' house at last he realizes he has never been so grateful that the man doesn't lock his door. He dozed in the cab but in between bouts of blessed unconsciousness, he remembered everything from that day. He doesn't know what he is going to do but running away won't ease the ache, will just make it worse.

He kicks off his boots, strips off his jacket, and crawls onto the soft plaid weave of the couch. He reaches up and pulls the Gibbs-smelling afghan down and over his bare back and chest and up around his neck, rubbing his nose into it, letting his body sink into cushions. He allows himself to rest. He catalogs every ache in every muscle, as they relax and release. The gash burns on his forehead. His head, the pulsing ache behind his right eye that probably means a migraine by tomorrow, feels like it is going to explode. And the hurt in his chest, the choking sensation, is still there, still bad, except he knows what it is now, and somehow that makes it both better and worse. He is so happy to be lying down, to be here at Gibbs' house, that he wants to cry. Maybe he does a little, but there is no one to see, just like there is no one to chide him for going to sleep. He takes a shuddering breath and moves his face over the afghan trying to dry his eyes but the blanket is the kind of soft that is synthetic and he just ends up smearing wet over hot cheeks. He feels sorry for himself but stops himself from crying more. He's Tony DiNozzo and Tony DiNozzo doesn't cry. Much. Plus he is tired and he is going to sleep and no one is going to stop him. He hopes, vaguely, that he dies from his concussion since it hurts so bad and there is no one to wake him up every two hours and ask him stupid questions. What the hell happens if you fall asleep and don't get woken up to answer questions, anyway?

If he dies this time, though, he won't take Gibbs with him. And at this cheering thought, feeling somehow as though he has accomplished his mission, Tony lets sleep take him away.

**LJG&TD**

A cool hand on his hot face. "Tony? Tony, wake up now."

Gibbs is here. Tony still feels so tired, and his head still hurts, but it is more concentrated now, not an all-over throbbing. Definitely a migraine coming. He is awake now, but hasn't opened his eyes.

"I know you're awake. C'mon now. Open your eyes."

Tony opens his eyes. Gibbs is close, right next to him, must be kneeling next to the couch. Tony hopes he put a pillow down under his knees.

"What time is it?"

"About three in the morning."

"Oh." Tony's eyes flick to the dark windows, but they show only the reflection of the single lamp that Gibbs must have turned on. He doesn't remember turning a lamp on.

"Where'd you go?" At the question, Tony's eyes come back to Gibbs'. Gibbs' voice is gruff as ever but quiet and gentle now. Tony feels Gibbs' breath against his cheek.

"Here."

Gibbs doesn't react, other than to put his hand on Tony's cheek again. "_Why_ did you try to leave?"

Tony thinks about that for a minute, but then asks the only question that really matters.

"Why did _you_?"

Gibbs eyes close but Tony's don't. He watches the small movements behind the vulnerable lids, the nostrils flaring with each breath. Gibbs' thumb moves back and forth _back and forth_ against Tony's cheek and Tony realizes that he is just glad that Gibbs is here. Tony is thinking about closing his own eyes again when Gibbs' piercing blue eyes are on his, and he answers.

"I can't do it again." He doesn't look away, but Tony can tell he wants to. Tony watches as Gibbs holds himself rigidly in check and tells the truth. "I cannot be the one that survives. Not again. First Shannon. Now you." Tony can't believe Gibbs said it out loud. Just like that. Shannon's name, and then his own. Well that was one question answered anyway. Not just the care of a boss for his employee, or a friend, or a son.

"Did you know before today?" Had Gibbs...felt...this way all along? How long?

"No." Gibbs' eyes show that this statement is too painful not to be the truth. He would never have chosen to lie about _this_.

Tony shivers and takes a deep breath in, or as deep as he can manage, the sensitive tissue of his lungs rebelling as he pushes his limits. As he starts to breathe out through his nose, Tony closes his eyes and hooks a hand around Gibbs' neck, pulling the older man's face down to his own. He pulls until their foreheads touch, until their noses bump a little, until Tony can whisper against Gibbs' mouth. "Okay."

Tony might have imagined the dry lips brushing against his own. But he didn't.

"Gibbs?"

"Yeah?"

"I need my headache medicine."

Gibbs straightens, and although he looks kind of shaken—not something Tony has seen often—he is all business again, looks Tony over carefully. "I think you need more than just that."

Tony squeezes his eyes shut. "Yeah, maybe, but I _really_ need my headache medicine. There is one in my wallet. If I need two, you'll have to get one from my apartment."

"I'll call Ducky if we do. You feel hot too. Did you take any ibuprophen when you got here?"

"No." Eyes still shut, Tony feels Gibbs stand and reach behind him to slip his wallet from his pants, hears him walk to the kitchen, get down a glass, pour him water from the tap, walk back to the living room. Gibbs puts the glass and, presumably, pills, down on the end table, and then reaches for Tony, puts a warm, strong hand around his shoulder and slides the other to rest in the center of his back. Tony almost moans at how good the contact feels. Gibbs exerts a steady, careful, but relentless pressure until Tony sits up enough that Gibbs can hold out pills and help Tony swallow water. Before he lets Tony sit back, Gibbs sits down behind him on the couch. He keeps a hand on Tony's back, propping him up until he can slide one leg up and around Tony, the other on the floor. When Tony lies back, he is resting against Gibbs strong chest, one of Gibbs' arms wrapped around him so his hand rests against Tony's chest, just where the pain is the worst.

He is uncomfortable, Gibbs must be too, but Tony rests for a minute, afraid honestly, that if he moves, Gibbs will move away, go away, and the smell of Gibbs, the heat of him, is so perfect that Tony just closes his eyes and lets the awkward embrace continue.

"Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you turn over? I think you'd be more comfortable." The other man shifts a little. "I know I would."

With Gibbs' help, Tony turns over and drapes himself over the other man, cheek pressed against tired cotton. Gibbs sighs and one hand comes to rest easily in the center of Tony's bare back, rubbing gently, and the other rubs small circles into Tony's temple.

Tony almost cries—_again—_in relief. He must make some sound because Gibbs' voice rumbles under his cheek. "Better?"

Tony squeezes the other man in a wordless hug of gratitude and presses harder against Gibbs.

After a while, Gibbs moves his hand away and Tony hums in protest.

"Just a minute, Tony. I need to call the others. They're still looking for you."

Guilt. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"Ducky…_Ducky_...I've got him...what?...no, no, nothing like that...he was at my house...I haven't asked him...he seems fine...we haven't talked about it really..._fine_—"

Gibbs pats him on the back. "Tony? When did you get here?"

Tony tried to think. "Dunno. Maybe an hour or so after I left."

"Have you been sleeping the whole time?"

"Yeah."

"Did you take anything at all? Any medicine?"

"No. Hurt too much. Just wanted to sleep."

"Okay. Good. Go back to sleep."

"Not sleeping."

"Okay. Go back to not sleeping."

"Okay."

Tony heard him put the phone back up to his ear. "Did you catch all that?...yeah, I'll watch him...I gave him his headache medicine. Do you know what he takes? He says he might need more...okay, have someone drop it off then...okay...thanks, Duck...yeah I'll tell him...can you call the others and let them know?...yeah...okay, Duck...yep. You too." Gibbs snaps the phone shut and tosses it on the end table. His fingers go back to Tony's temple.

"Is the pain any better?" His hands still while he waits for an answer.

Tony can feel the various medicines opening up blood vessels, dulling the pain in his head, quieting the shrieking of pulled and strained muscles. Even the gash on his head isn't throbbing as much.

The pain in his chest is just as bad though. It hurts with every beat of his heart, with every beat of Gibbs'. It hurts like fear. Fear of loss and grieving, of misunderstanding and harsh words, of helplessness in the face of accidents and malice and damage.

The thrum of Gibbs' heartbeat underneath his cheek brings him back to himself, to how good it feels to be close to Gibbs this way. The pain in his chest feels like that too, sweet. Like the sun on his back when he is cold, like coming home to find dinner already made, like recognition and laughter and being known and liked the better for it.

Gibbs' hands start to move again, big warm sweeps across his back and little round circles on his face, and Tony can finally answer.

"Yeah. It's a little better now."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Two updates in two days. Wow. First The Match, and now Falling. I hope you like it. The Tony in this story is a little softer than the Tony in Distress or The Match, but he's hurt, you can't blame the guy. Thanks to everyone for sending encouragement my way. It's just...well...thanks. Squares 3/19/14

* * *

He thought he'd have a little bit longer but Gibbs heard Ducky's car pull into his drive a little after 0600 hours. Tony was out cold, so Gibbs managed to get out from under him without waking him, but it wasn't easy. Tony was so deeply asleep he didn't protest at all, but he was a big guy and Gibbs had work to escape. By the time he did, the door was opening and he turned from where he was standing over Tony to catch Ducky's eye.

Ducky quietly closed the door behind him and made his way over to Jethro, hair combed and bow tie in place, despite the early hour. He handed Jethro a duffle bag.

"I took this from Tony's locker since I didn't have a key to his apartment, and," he reached into the pocket of his trenchcoat, pulled out a prescription bottle, "I took the liberty of refilling his prescription so he would have access to his medicine." He handed the bottle to Jethro as well as his coat and hat. When Jethro returned from hanging them up, Ducky was looking down at Tony, hands in his pockets.

"His color seems a little off. When did you last wake him?"

"About an hour ago."

"Was he lucid?"

"Not very, but he did answer questions."

"What did you ask him?"

"I asked him what Ziva and McGee's measurements were."

Ducky smirked. "I'd wager you have been wanting to ask him that for a long time."

"He got them right."

The smirk turned to a grin, "I'm sure he did."

Gibbs' impatience got the better of him. "So, are you going to check him out or stand around talking to me?"

Ducky shot him a look. "Are you worried?" Then he held up a hand. "Don't answer that. Let's see, young Anthony...let's see what we see…" The older man murmured and kneeled down, felt Tony's forehead and flushed face. Tony was still on his stomach and didn't stir at Ducky's touch.

Likely only Ducky could hear the worry in Jethro's terse offer to help wake Tony up, or roll him over. Ducky figured that it certainly wouldn't hurt Tony and might well help Jethro.

"Yes, let's do that." He laid his palm on Tony's cheek again and lightly slapped him. "Anthony. Anthony, dear boy. Wake up now." Tony remained unresponsive. "Tony. Tony? Can you open your eyes?"

"_DiNozzo._" Gibbs didn't raise his voice, but the command was clear and Tony roused. Ducky's lips twisted in disapprobation as he glanced back at Gibbs, but the heavy worry in the other man's eyes kept him from saying anything about shouting at the patient.

"Jethro, come around this other side." Together they got Tony propped up, sitting upright on the couch, and the younger man squinted at them, trying to wake up. Ducky was perched on the edge of the couch next to him, and Jethro was on one knee on the other side.

"Ducky? Wha...whattimesit?"

"About 7, Tony. In the morning." Tony turned toward Gibbs, forehead wrinkling, presumably at his boss' use of his name. "How are you doing?"

"M'head hurts," he rubbed at his right temple then suddenly tried to get up. _Did_ get up, surged up with a quickness they should have expected probably.

"_Whoa._ Tony, you don't need to—" Gibbs caught him as Tony lurched to the side. "Tony, sit down, dummy, what are you trying to—" Now Gibbs staggered back as Tony tried to walk. "What are you—Ducky, should we bring him back to the hospital?"

Tony moaned and dropped to his knees. Gibbs grabbed a waste paper basket and was kneeling by him when Tony started retching. Ducky went and retrieved a wet washcloth, and finally, after a rough couple of minutes, they found a tentative equilibrium, Tony curled over his stomach with his head lying against the carpet. Gibbs crouched next to him with a hand on his back, thumb stroking along his vertebrae, an unconscious reaction to Tony being sick. Ducky noticed that the other man hadn't stopped even after Tony was done being sick and had his face wiped. Even as Ducky thought it, Gibbs flicked a glance his way and pulled his hand back. A small sound of protest from Tony, though, and the hand returned, with a glare from Gibbs directed at no one in particular.

Ducky ignored it all. "Well, we have to get him up off the floor and lying down. Let's see if we can get him to a bed."

Moving with deliberation and with the help of Gibbs' steadying hand, Tony seemed able to stand without getting sick. He took a few shambling steps and, bolstered by this small success, pushed at the hands holding him. "I've got it," he mumbled.

Gibbs looked at Ducky and jerked his head toward the kitchen. "We're gonna need a glass of water if you want him to take any medicine. There's an ice pack in the freezer and some clean washcloths in the closet. I'll get him upstairs."

Tony made another protest. "Forget it, Tony. Lean on me, c'mon," he hooked Tony's arm around his neck to lay across his shoulders. "Don't make me kick your ass."

"Wouldn't take much," Tony grumbled before he gave in, curling around Gibbs so that the older man was half carrying, half supporting Tony. The balance was right between them, though, and they slowly but easily navigated the stairs to the top, Tony's slightly taller, muscled bulk shifted strategically by Gibbs' wiry strength. To get him down to the bed without falling, Gibbs sat with him, lowering them both. When Tony seemed to be able to sit on his own, Gibbs stood up but before he could move away, Tony grabbed for him, pulled so that Gibbs was standing in front of him, and then tighter so that Gibbs was standing against Tony's legs.

Gibbs let himself be pulled between Tony's legs and to his surprise, Tony wrapped long arms around him and lay his cheek against Gibbs' stomach, letting out a small breath of relief as his eyes closed again. His face, what Gibbs could see of it, remained pinched in pain and Gibbs brought a tentative hand up to stroke through Tony's hair, awkward but apparently effective comfort. Gibbs could see the muscles in Tony's back loosen and his face smooth. Gibbs was always surprised that Tony looked the same awake or asleep. He never seemed totally relaxed, just resting, and it wouldn't surprise Gibbs if his eyes opened at any point. Perhaps in the dark of night, when he was most deeply asleep...

Ducky came in carrying his bag and a glass of water. Gibbs didn't bother trying to explain the way Tony slumped against him in a tight embrace. His own hands had come to rest lightly on Tony's shoulders, the skin warm and silky to his touch. He couldn't even work himself up to glaring. He didn't know what to do, what to think. He...he...had almost lost Tony, almost died himself, and now it was all he could do not to grab Tony and hold him close. The most peace he had had that he could remember, was Tony's slumbering weight the last couple of hours.

Ducky checked Tony's vitals one more time, had him take another headache pill, and retrieved a clean t-shirt from Gibbs' bureau. Ducky washed his hands as Jethro slipped the shirt over Tony's head and got his arms through the sleeves. Tony moaned and protested, his shoulders were obviously strained from hanging from a cliff yesterday. And now Tony was here, with him. The whole thing felt surreal. People were rarely in his bedroom. _He_ was rarely in his bedroom. But it was familiar and held his clothes and bed and a few books. The sun had come up a while ago but only now had it cleared the trees and houses, and the golden light was streaming through the windows.

Gibbs didn't sleep that much but the sleep he did get was well before now. He could go days without much sleep but he was as tired as he ever remembered being. His head was throbbing dully and he wasn't even surprised when Ducky pressed three tablets and water on him. Tony was truly a dead weight against him now that he had slipped back into deeper sleep, and Gibbs had to work to stay where he was, propping Tony up.

Before he knew it, Ducky had pushed Tony back and over, skillfully pulling the covers down and under and then back over the younger man. Tony lay on his side and showed no sign of moving anytime soon.

Feeling strangely bereft, Jethro swayed on his feet by the bed, rubbed his face tiredly and turned toward the door, certain there were things he should be doing. Ducky stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.

"Your body needs the rest too, Jethro," his friend pulled him over to the other side of the bed. "You can take this side of the bed and you can keep an eye on Tony." Gibbs felt drugged.

"Ducky, what did you give me?" He couldn't believe that he didn't question the tablets and was starting to get angry when Ducky reassured him even as he pushed him to side on the edge of the bed.

"Just ibuprophen, Jethro, for the headache and the aches you are undoubtedly feeling in your body. You are just _tired_, my friend. Just sleep, alright? You aren't doing anyone any good half-dead on your feet."

Gibbs grumbled but kicked his shoes off, stripped his jeans off, and slipped his legs under the covers even as Ducky crossed the room and pulled shades that hadn't been closed in a decade probably. Gibbs settled on his back, eyes half-closed as he followed Ducky's progress around the room.

"I'll call you this afternoon, Jethro. But you can of course, call me if you need me. I'll alert the team that you are not to be disturbed." Ducky turned, to say goodbye, and Jethro started to respond only to let out a surprised grunt as Tony crawled over to rest on top of him, mimicking their position from earlier, on the couch. Ducky couldn't help but let out a small laugh, a laugh which got bigger when Jethro first glared, and then smiled back.

_Ah, fuck it._ He was too tired for this shit. "Good-_bye_, Duck." He wrapped his arms around Tony—_jesus, what a difference a day made—_and was asleep almost instantly.

When Gibbs woke, he felt strange...content. When he thought about it, he realized that what had woken him was a change in position. He was now tucked behind Tony, his arm wrapped around the other man's waist, holding tight and close. He thought that maybe Tony had been holding him not long ago. He strained to remember, but gave it up when he realized he had an opportunity to think, to observe Tony while he slept.

The bedclothes were mostly pushed down and Tony's shirt had ridden up. Jethro glanced at the back of Tony's head guiltily, then propped himself up on his elbow, checking to be sure the other man was asleep. Tony's breathing was steady and hadn't changed. It wasn't deep; probably he would wake up sometime soon too. But for now…

Jethro glanced down again and boldly stroked the swathe of skin showing between Tony's jeans and where the shirt had ridden up. The skin felt hot and tight and smooth. Jethro realized that he could imagine kissing Tony there, exploring that strip of skin with his mouth and hands. Jethro had never had sex with a man, but he had come close a few times. The months after Kelly and Shannon died were a blur of alcohol and sex and he remembered them as the dark days before the darkest days. What seemed like rock bottom turned out to be just the grim beginning of a very long road, and that beginning was at least full of live things. In fact that time was when he first became the night owl that he was, walking streets and piers and parks and highways, and even now, he felt a comfort in the night that was connected to his awareness of just how many people and creatures were awake in the dark hours. Even at 3 am, alone in his house, he felt connected to those others.

Jethro glanced up at Tony, checking again but not really worried, let his eyes follow the flushed curve of the man's cheek, the thick lashes and gossamer lids. Without leaning up further, he couldn't see Tony's mouth or the rest of his face. Jethro shifted, to be able to see better, but couldn't resist leaning down quickly to press a kiss on the naked small of Tony's back. He brushed his lips there and paused, feeling the warmth of his breath come back to him.

He shifted carefully so that he leaned on an elbow but could look down on Tony even as he felt the warmth of the other man's back at his chest. Jethro put his hand on Tony's cloth-covered shoulder, smoothed it down Tony's arm until he hit bare skin, soft hair and skin, trailed his fingers down to stroke and play along the back of Tony's hand, warm and strong and tan where it rested on the sheet.

His gaze was drawn back to Tony's face, the parted lips. Tony didn't snore, or wasn't snoring now, anyway. Jethro lifted his hand from Tony's, reached up and touched the soft hair, brown and shiny. Not as it short as it sometimes was.

"I need a haircut."

Jethro only just managed to not jump. He didn't think he had given himself away but Tony must have noticed something.

"Surprise you?" He opened his eyes and turned to his back, looking up at Jethro where the other man hovered over him. The green of his eyes clear and piercing, warm with humor, but wary…

Jethro cleared his throat. "You were awake? Your breathing didn't change."

Tony's smile broadened. "That's cause I was awake the whole time, since you woke up."

"Yeah?" Gibbs really was surprised now. "How come?"

"Because of the last Hulk Hogan move you made. You are bossy in bed, boss."

Gibbs looked away, to hide his embarrassment. Tony added. "I was afraid you might Superfly Snooka me."

"You thought I might Superflysnooker you? What the hell is that?" Tony snorted at the mispronunciation and then snickered, turning all the way over and curling into Gibbs. Gibbs couldn't help it and laughed too. Both of them groaned at the way it made their ribs and the long muscles of their torsos hurt. Almost dropping off a cliff was hard work.

After a minute, their breathing quieted again.

"Kiss my back again?" Tony's voice was quiet, and he spoke against Gibbs' throat. But Gibbs heard him. And in the still surreal morning after, with the other man pressed close against him, Gibbs' traitor hand came up and slipped under Tony's shirt, stroked the spot. Tony gasped and arched his back, pressing hard into Gibbs, mouth dropping open and eyes slamming shut. The touch of the other man's body was a trigger and Gibbs brought his hand up to bracket Tony's throat, travel down in an unintentionally sensuous slide down down until his palm spanned Tony's neck like a torc. The rough pad of his thumb plucked and rubbed in the hollow of Tony's throat. Tony let out another moan and his body opened wider, invited more…

When he felt the wild beat of Tony's heart against his hand, Jethro leaned over and sealed his mouth on the soft skin behind Tony's jaw, under his ear. His mouth moved, firm, demanding even, on Tony's skin and the pleasure Jethro brought the younger man was matched by the spikes of pain in Gibbs' arms as Tony clutched him, beyond control. A grunt from Jethro brought Tony's head up close, bright blue eyes meeting sleepy green, mouths just moments apart. Tony's eyes flickered down to Gibbs' lips and just watching the other man's interest made Jethro's breath come faster and then he couldn't help but look at Tony's mouth, lips so warm and soft looking. He let out another small moan, whispered against the other man's lips. "_Jesus, Tony._ What are we doing?"

"Oh, god, I don't know, Gibbs. Just fucking kiss me would you? _Please._"

But Gibbs was too slow and Tony was the one who closed the distance. And somehow, this was one line too far. Jethro got only the barest taste of Tony's mouth—_fuck he tasted good, hot, and sweet—_before he was thrusting the younger man away and backing out of the bed, almost falling on the floor in his haste.

Gibbs stood next to the bed, arms outstretched, to ward Tony off maybe, and breathed hard, jaw set, eyes trained on Tony. "What...what—" He rasped out his question finally, "what are we doing, Tony?"

Tony just lay where he was, body too tired and sore to move, but he was _himself_, alert and clever and acerbic as he cocked his head, looked up and answered Gibbs from where he lay. He was as exposed and vulnerable as someone could be, and Jethro, for his part, loomed over him, the picture of frustration, if not outrage. But somehow, Tony held the reins. He didn't know what they were doing or what was going to happen next or even what he wanted to have happen but the last 24 hours had revealed something buried. He knew something now that he hadn't known before: that Gibbs cared for him. Cared for him...over himself. He couldn't believe it. It enraged him and mesmerized him in equal measure.

That was what was so surreal about this. That one moment in time, falling...both the mundane and the sublime irrevocably changed.

A coffee shared. A headslap, or clap on the back. Cowboy steaks, or going out for a beer. A shirt that brought out Gibbs' eyes. A shirt Tony chose because it brought out the color of his. Not wanting to attend a group thing if the other man wasn't going. A Christmas present. Staying behind to work late so Gibbs wouldn't be alone. Gibbs leaving work because he knew Tony would stay otherwise. Mundane events and habits that meant more than they had even yesterday.

As for the sublime...Shit, Tony hadn't reacted like that to a kiss on his back in years, or really, _ever_. He wanted to crawl _inside_ of Gibbs, wanted to be _that_ close. It fucking _hurt_ when the other man ripped his mouth away.

So yeah, forgive him if he wasn't thrown by a little thing like a kiss. His whole damn world had been turned on its head the last 24 hours and he felt too fucking _wrecked_ to not take comfort and pleasure where he could. Now if he could just get Gibbs back into bed…

"I don't know, Gibbs. And right now," he smirked up at the older man, "I don't even care. This is _your_ fault."

"_My_ fault? How do you figure that, DiNozzo?"

"You're the one who wouldn't let me go."

Gibbs' jaw set and he was breathing in and out through his nose, angry at this irrefutable truth. He turned and sat down, hard, on the edge of the bed, his back to Tony, and rubbed his hands over his face. He stiffened when he heard Tony move behind him, but didn't look at the younger man until Tony moaned.

"Oh shit, Gibbs, every muscle, every bone in my body fucking hurts. Even my fucking toes hurt. Jesus." Tony grumbled and complained until he had moved from his back to his side, facing Gibbs back. Gibbs was looking at him from over his shoulder, tension in every line of the muscled back.

Tony met his eyes and then said, "I wouldn't have let you go either."

Gibbs eyes slammed shut. He took a breath. Opened his eyes. "What do you want to do about this?"

"You ever slept with a man?"

Another muttered oath. Tony couldn't help but smile, despite his own discomfort. He waited.

"No."

"Ever wanted to? C'mon...tell the truth."

"Hell, I don't know, Tony. I never thought so, but honestly, I don't know what to think. Look at you! You are in my bed. *I'm* barely ever in my bed. And we...we...and...I—" Gibbs shut his mouth. Tony could almost hear the _snap_. Incoherent Gibbs. A rare beast. "What about you? You don't seem upset at all. Have you ever slept with a man?"

"No, but I always said if I slept with anyone it would be with you."

"_What?_"

"Oh, come on, late night drunken ramblings with Fornell or someone? You never played this game? If you could have one more night with someone, who? If you could have one night with anyone, who? If you had to sleep with someone at work or in this bar, who? If you had to sleep with a guy, who?"

"No. I have never played that game. I don't play games."

"Well, you _should_. It's fun. Remember fun, Gibbs?"

Gibbs just glared.

"Speaking of fun…" Tony pulled at the covers under Gibbs' ass until they slid free. He pulled them down until the inside of the bed was visible. "Be a pal and get me more medicine and then come back to bed. Just for a little while, okay? Just until," he looked at the clock. 9:43 am. "until noon. Then we'll get dressed and hobble downstairs like the manly, women-loving men that we are."

"How can you joke about this?"

At this, Tony gave up. He really did feel just awful. And so much for trying to help Gibbs through this. Tony had compressed days of denial and giddy disbelieving acceptance into much of yesterday. The time spent sitting in the coffee shop, watching Gibbs search for him, thinking about the way that Gibbs had cared for him in so many ways, for so long now, had gone a long way to reconciling Tony to the change in circumstances. Besides, he had been through most of the hot women in the D.C. metro area. Maybe it was time to try just one man. The biggest bastard in the city. Now that's a challenge he was up for.

But not if Gibbs wouldn't let him, wanted to pretend nothing happened, go back to the way it was before. Tony didn't know if he could do that, but just now, with the fireball behind his right eye throbbing and causing his stomach to knot, and the way every bit of his body felt hot and tight and painful, he didn't feel like fighting.

Tony rolled onto his back and over, almost to the far edge of the bed, curled in on himself, away from Gibbs. Closed his eyes, concentrated on his breath and the feel of cool cotton beneath his cheek. Tried to let go of the smell and heat of Gibbs holding him.

He wanted Gibbs' touch like he wanted air. He knew, he could actually _feel_ the rough circles on his back, knew what the other man's knees would feel like behind his, the touch of strong lips on his spine, the way Gibbs' hand would feel woven through his, clasped on his belly, Gibbs' strong arm wrapped around him from behind.

He didn't _know_ how it happened. He just knew it had.

Tony tried to sleep but sleep wasn't coming. He was cold. _Dammit_. If he had to get out of bed to get another blanket, he was going to cry. Hell, he might cry anyway. It felt like his head was going to explode. A small sound—it was _not_ a whimper—escaped when he felt the hand stroke through his hair. _Nothing_ had ever felt so good. He pressed his eyes shut, praying it didn't stop.

But the hand didn't stop and finally he felt Gibbs sit in the angle his bent body made, snugging up close to his chest and thighs, resting his arm on Tony while his hand stroked through Tony's hair. Soothing. Tony sighed. _So warm._ Gibbs cleared his throat, spoke.

"Tony, lift up. You need to take your medicine."

"I don't want to."

"C'mon now." Gibbs would never say "for me". But Tony would have done it. Would do it anyway. He opened his eyes a little, lifted up a little. Let Gibbs put the tablets in his hand, let Gibbs help him drink. "Good."

Gibbs didn't move, but he didn't resume his stroking either.

"You leaving?" Tony hated how weak his voice sounded.

Finally, Gibbs broke the long silence with a sigh. "No. Not til noon." Tony felt the bed lift when Gibbs stood, heard him moved around to the other side of the bed again, waited in an agony of anticipation until he felt the bed dip and the press of Gibbs warm body against him. _It was enough. It would have to be enough for now._ But then he felt Gibbs lips graze his cheek, felt the other man nuzzle into his neck, kiss him there before settling back to put his head on the pillow. He left his arm wrapped around Tony though, even as he muttered.

"Maybe not till one."


End file.
